


Temptation Over a Cup of Tea

by Ronri_Majesty



Series: Every Sin (Empress Consort Obi-Wan AU) [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captivity, Companion Piece, Emotional Manipulation, Emperor Anakin Skywalker, Emperor Darth Vader, Gaslighting (I think), Implied/Referenced Mpreg, Interrogation, Intimidation, M/M, Married Obikin, Mentions of drugs, Mind Control, Misuse of the Force (Star Wars), Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Obi-Wan loves tea, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Original Character, Poor Obi-Wan Kenobi, Post Mpreg, Power Imbalance, Suitless Darth Vader, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaderkin, Vaderwan, excuse you obi-wan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29915856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronri_Majesty/pseuds/Ronri_Majesty
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi-Skywalker is smiling at him warmly as though he was waiting for a friend to arrive all along. But something foreboding lies in that endearing expression, a shadowy fiend that lurks behind the halo of an angel.“Welcome, Mr. Kraig. Would you like to join me for tea?”Or:A bunch of idiots decided it was a good idea to tick off Vaderwan. One idiot gets arrested and then joins Obi-Wan for tea.(Aka the Tea Intimidation Scene I mentioned in my endnotes from the first piece of this verse.)
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Series: Every Sin (Empress Consort Obi-Wan AU) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155101
Comments: 45
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I'M BACK.
> 
> Please mind the tags! Personally, I think this fic isn't too heavy on the emotional negativity and the likes, but play it safe anyway, guys.
> 
> Huzzah! We finally get to explore Obi-Wan 2.0 (I'm just gonna refer to him as that for now, lol). I was dying to show you guys this new side of Obi-Wan. This time around, he's the one doing the emotional manipulation. *loud gasp* Let’s just say this new side of Obi-Wan is not the one you want to meet if you’re enemies. Like…damn, Obi-Wan. My soul’s quaking.
> 
> As tagged, there will be some OC POV in this fic. Had to do that for the right...effect. And reminder that I’m not an expert of SW, so expect some inaccuracies here and there. If anything, I claim the use of creative license.
> 
> This fic went from being 5k words to 7k to 9k to something that is now too damn long and still partly unfinished (brain, why do you do this to me). Because of that, I had to split this monster up. It'll be done in 3 parts.
> 
> Note:
> 
> \- This is set sometime after You Are Every Sin I Died For

As a Jedi Peacekeeper, Obi-Wan considered crime scenes and illegal activities to be old friends of his since he often had to solve them or eliminate the threat in most cases. He’s seen it all, from little misdemeanors—theft and trespassing and traffic violations—to capital offenses—murder and cruelty and terrorism.

Now he is an empress to an empire. He _is_ law and order, second only to his husband as someone who possesses full authority within the Empire. Nevertheless, crime scenes and illegal activities are still old friends to Obi-Wan, except this time, those are violations against _his_ regulations, insults to _his_ command and magnanimity. His followers and supporters hail him as the champion of equality and justice, the protector of innocents, the patron of enlightenment. Between him and his husband, he is the merciful one, the compassionate one, the beloved one.

So, who is it? Who dares to _scorn him like this_? To think that they can indulge themselves while offending him all the while?

When Obi-Wan first read the compiled file flagged as _high-priority_ , to say that he was displeased is an understatement. If he hadn’t been wearing a Force-suppression bracelet, he would’ve torn down the room in the split-second that his control over his anger had slipped. Summarizing the case, it is a random string of mass abductions, spanning from the Mid to Outer Rims. The earliest suspected kidnapping dates back to three months ago, the most recent only four-days old. Over sixty percent of the kidnappings occur in overpopulated cities, but this is just a rough estimate made by the investigation team, considering that rural areas lack a well-structured police force, so there’s nowhere for civilians to report crimes to. Such a disadvantage means that no one really knows the exact total of missing sentients, but whatever it is, the number keeps escalating, and with it, the alarm of the Imperial Office of Criminal Investigations grows as well.

Then the case becomes a horror film when the investigation team finds a trail of discarded corpses. The horror part comes from the fact that these corpses are nothing more than withered husks, ones that could’ve been mistaken as mummies of a bygone age if scientists hadn’t genetically matched them to those reported missing. All of the deceased beings have traces of an unknown drug in their systems. Then, it must not be a coincidence that rumors of a terrifying drug have been circulating as of late, one said to have the potential to threaten the might and integrity of the Empire.

This case had to be more than just atrocities done for the sake of drug experimentation. But what’s the real motive behind it all? The answer is _there_ , in their grasp, lurking right beneath the surface, shrouded within all the evidence. Its elusiveness teases everyone, frustrating their efforts to crack the case.

Then a path opens up, bringing them closer to the root of the problem. It occurs when forensic scientists discover something appalling: three out of five victims are Force-sensitive.

_The nerve of those rotten…!_

A flagrant threat to the two sovereigns. What else could it be but that? There’s a group of scum who think they can flout imperial law and trash the names of the two most influential Force-sensitives in the known galaxy—this has to be a first in a long time.

And Obi-Wan is having _none of that_. These degenerates will be rooted out and arrested before something irreparable happens—Obi-Wan will make sure of it.

Fortunately for him, he always prefers to nip something in the bud, to see the faces of the schemers pale and stiffen in slow-dawning realization when everything they’ve worked so hard for falls apart. He thrives off of that.

This time will be no different.

* * *

They finally have a breakthrough in analyzing and testing the drug, but it’s a disconcerting one.

Never has it occurred to Obi-Wan that such a monstrous substance could be invented—until now. If this drug had existed during the Clone Wars… He shudders just thinking about the possibility, the carnage, it would’ve caused.

“You can think of it as a Force-enhancer,” says Dr. Yarbrough, present in the conference room via a holoprojector, her partially grainy form displayed in the center of the room, within the open rectangular space enclosed by connected tables. “Or, from another standpoint, a Force-activator. In the end, it depends on whether the subject is Force-sensitive or not. The drug works in two ways. One, it will awaken any latent Force ability if the subject doesn’t already have access to it. Two, it removes all impediments involved in controlling the Force, such as psychological restraints. Together, these characteristics allow for one particular outcome: it aggressively draws out an inordinate amount of Force energy from a body. And from what we know about Force-Adepts, this is tantamount to death. Here is the reason behind the withered conditions of the victims.”

Two images appear before every sentient seated at the tables, displayed on their holoscreens. Dr. Yarbrough continues her explanation: “Once we discovered the purpose of the drug, it was easier for us to determine which body was Force-sensitive or not. As many of you know, each victim resembles a shriveled mummy, looking as if something had accelerated their decomposition. But, in truth, this process didn’t occur post-mortem. Once injected with the drug, the victims began dying at a rapid rate, completely drained of their lifeforce. To get a better visualization of what I mean, take a look at the images before you. These are images of blood vessels taken from two separate victims. Can you guess which one belongs to a Force-sensitive?”

Not even a heartbeat later, a clear, lilting voice answers, “The one on the left.”

Seated in an ornately carved chair at one end of the room is Obi-Wan. Dr. Yarbrough, being a full-body projection, bows low at him. “That is correct, My Lord. May I ask how you came to this conclusion?”

Stormy blue eyes are half-lidded as Obi-Wan studies the images, somber in his focus. The officers in the room prudently wait for their lord’s response.

“The blood vessels in the left image look…overloaded and ruptured,” he says clinically, reflective. “As for the right image, the vessels are still deformed, yes, but not completely torn apart. For a Force-sensitive, I assume the drug would’ve affected them worse than someone who is not. To be emptied of your Force energy so violently like that…” As he ponders this, Obi-Wan’s composure cracks the slightest, a faint tremor going down the length of his fingers. Being discreet, he flexes that hand once before laying it flat against the armrest. He sighs audibly, shaking his head. “It is not an experience I would wish on anyone. Imagine having microscopic ion bombs detonating within your body—or something more terrible than that.”

It escapes his notice how he has a white-knuckled grip on the armrest until his hand is covered by a gloved one. A wave of comfort arrives to wash away all the disquieting currents that seethed and rippled within him. He sends his gratitude through the bond and gets rewarded with a gentle caress to his now relaxed knuckles.

Unlike his husband, Emperor Vader has shown no sign of being affected by the grisly details of their discussion. That is because, as someone who had experienced the most gruesome and sordid things that life has to offer, very little could upset him now, and this holds true as he sits pensively in his high back chair next to his empress consort. The Royal Guards, a mixture of troopers and Force-Adept templars who hover around their monarchs protectively, are similarly inexpressive due to their helmets and masks. However, the same can’t be said for all of the officers, since a few of them look a bit nauseous, but to their credit, they stamp down the sick feeling and return their attention to Dr. Yarbrough, who dips her head in thanks for the empress’s elaboration.

“In short, the drug is too taxing on the body,” she says. “Even the slightest amount is lethal.”

“And what of an antidote?” Vader asks, speaking up for the first time since he commenced the meeting.

The forensic scientist stands up straighter. Her brows are scrunched low in a contrite expression. “I’m afraid it is too soon to say, Your Imperial Majesty. We are still in the process of breaking down the components of the drug, but without a viable sample to work with, we expect very little progress. To make matters worse, each sample we test gets destroyed as well.” She glances at a Cosian officer. “My team would appreciate it if we were to receive either one of two things: an uncontaminated sample of the drug or any clues as to what its ingredients may be to cross-reference with.”

The Cosian officer nods. “We will do our best to get what you need.”

For the rest of the meeting, the lead investigator takes the floor. He describes what the team and their contacts have come across: suspicious or abnormal commercial activities linked to big-name companies with sketchy operations or backgrounds. On his datapad, Obi-Wan skims through the latter half of the updated report. His gaze lingers on the paragraph hypothesizing the criminals’ motives. As he thinks of the victims, mainly the young or honest-working beings, his eyes tighten, his throat constricting as well. 

_All because they were Force-sensitive…_

Again, he questions himself, _Why are Force-sensitives the primary targets?_ Looking at it from above, it has all the makings of a possible genocide with its discriminative attack and slaughter of a particular ethnic group, but it’s not just about killing them—or so insists Obi-Wan’s intuition. If he thinks about it from a different angle, it’s almost as if…

Suddenly, as if a chilly breeze had blown by, Obi-Wan shivers, the sensation crawling down the length of his back and leaving goosebumps in its wake. The movement is imperceptible, hidden underneath the layers of his robes, yet that means nothing when his discomfort echoes in the bond that bridges him to another, alerting the one person who would be the most concerned about his wellbeing. His hand is still covered by a gloved one, which curls to thread their fingers together.

_Obi-Wan?_

_…Wait until the meeting is over. I’ll tell you then._

_Alright._

Obi-Wan is anxious for the meeting to conclude, wanting a private moment with his husband to confide in the theory that had struck him earlier. Once the lead investigator wraps up his closing statement, and no one has anything else to say, the officers are all dismissed. In unison, they face their monarchs and bend over in reverence, chanting uniformly, “Glory and prosperity to Your Divine Majesties, the Eternal Ones,” as a farewell parting. Then the sentients file out of the room in an orderly fashion, though the Royal Guards remain where they are. But that’s not private enough for Obi-Wan, so he gives the emperor a few mental nudges until he gets the hint. Vader orders the guards to wait outside in the hall. The troopers and templars salute once before leaving the couple behind.

Vader turns to Obi-Wan. “Well? Are you going to tell me or not? I can feel that you’re upset, Obi-Wan, and I don’t like it.”

Pursing his lips, Obi-Wan stalls for a moment as he tries to think of a way to venture into the subject without inciting the younger man’s highly volatile defensive nature. “Yes, it’s…about the perpetrators…and their motive.”

Vader cocks his head, regarding his lover cautiously. “Alright, I’m listening.”

“What I’m about to say is just a hunch of mine, but…” Obi-Wan sighs. “I believe that these murderers, in a roundabout sort of method, are targeting us.”

Vader’s voice is low and sharp. “Targeting _us_?” He takes an involuntary step forward, stealing into Obi-Wan’s space though there wasn’t much distance between them in the first place. He looms over the shorter man protectively, caging him within his presence, his shadow. “You mean how they’re killing Force-sensitives?”

“That is only a small piece to the whole picture,” Obi-Wan says softly, sifting through their bond to keep track of the taller man’s mood. It is too late for him to stop the kindling that has been set ablaze underneath the Sith’s flesh. If fanned any further and set loose, the fire will consume everything in its path. Obi-Wan hopes to prevent that at least. “I theorize that perhaps their end goal is something else,” he whispers. “Something much grander than it could be if they’re capable of it… An army of soldiers.”

The Sith stiffens, his pupils contracting. “An _army_?” he repeats, hissing. “What makes you say that?”

Obi-Wan waves a hand at his datapad, which displays the analysis done on the drug. “The amplifying effects of the drug. In one perspective, you can assert that the weapon here is the drug, designed to kill victims in an internally destructive manner. Yet, in another, the victims are the weapons—or they have the potential to be—while the drug is the enabler. My bet is on the second scenario. Whoever invented this drug, their intention was to boost the Force energy within a sentient to _strengthen_ them, to mold them into powerful weapons.” He exhales through his nose, a harsh sound from frustration. “Either way, if they perfect the drug and learn how to control it…”

“It’ll be a massive threat to us,” Vader growls, his jaw clenched. “To our Empire. And to our children.”

Obi-Wan swallows, imagining the worse if the drug ever got near their children, who are all Force-sensitive, just like their parents. Each one has displayed talent in harnessing the Force, and that includes his youngest. At barely five-months-old, she often touches the minds and emotions of others through the Force.

An unwelcome tendril of fear seeps through the tiny cracks of his defenses, making itself at home in the back of his mind. Despite his iron-clad control over his emotions—years of dampening the fire that was his anger, dispersing the fog that was his sorrow—Obi-Wan knows there will always be a tipping point. As much as it shames him to admit it, he _has_ gone over the edge. More than once already. It stains his spirit with a bitter and scummy sort of murkiness for falling prey to his emotions, for regressing into a mindless instrument of rage and vengeance. 

After what happened to his eldest child, Obi-Wan’s not sure what the fallout would be on his psyche if he unleashed his righteous, unbridled wrath again. The first time had _burned_.

Even if he’s given a century's worth of time, he’ll never be able to harness his anger and passion the way his husband, a Sith, does. It is at an intensity that goes beyond his threshold.

Sensing his distress, Vader curls an arm around him and pulls him into an embrace, tucking him under his chin. “Our children will be fine, love. No harm will come to them, not while we still breathe.”

Obi-Wan rests his cheek against a broad shoulder, his hand splayed across the plesticene of his husband’s formal suit, the weave of the fabric smooth underneath his fingers. The Sith projects an aura of protectiveness and reassurance, and Obi-Wan appreciates it, but his unrest does not subside, persistent like weeds. For however many weeds are uprooted, more will sprout to take their place.

Admitting defeat to the unrest, he makes up his mind. When he shifts around in the arms barricading him to a tall build, Obi-Wan hears a grumbled noise of complaint, which does little to dissuade him from reaching up to skate his fingers along a proud jaw. “Anakin…”

A single word, a name, is all he says before a frown is tugging at Vader’s mouth. The emperor doesn’t need to rely on their bond to know what he’s about to ask. Obi-Wan has always been an unencrypted code to him, his intentions and actions far too apparent. “Obi-Wan, you don’t need to get invested in this one. The officers can handle it. You’re recovering now, and Remi needs you.” His hand strays down to the older man’s stomach, stroking it out of habit, but the baby bump isn’t there anymore.

Although Vader finds him too predictable, sometimes Obi-Wan can work around that because he has leeway over the Sith in one particular respect: Vader’s weakness has always been him.

It’s his turn to make a move now, so Obi-Wan unleashes a counterblow. He gazes up at the taller man with wide, beseeching eyes, infusing his voice with as much piteousness as he can muster when he begs, “Darling, please? I want to help. Innocent lives are at stake here. You saw the numbers—the mortality rate is climbing, accelerating. The next time any of these missing people are heard of again, it’s days later when they’re found half-buried in a ditch. And let’s not forget about the ones that don’t show up anywhere at all. Do you think their friends and families will accept such a loss?” 

Anguish twists his features and reflects in his mournful grayish-blue eyes. _Those monsters didn’t even spare children,_ he almost argues, but that wound is still raw and gaping, left untreated even after all these years. He doesn’t dare to broach that topic ever again; it stings the corner of his eyes and makes his breath hitch just thinking about it. “I need to get to the bottom of this—this barbarity. It’s a threat knocking on our door, isn't it? So how am I supposed to ignore it? If I don’t do _something_ , then I…I…”

The more he pleads, the more his distress mounts, leaking into his Force signature like the sediment of a bank getting swept away into a river by its currents.

Vader exhales slowly. If not for the tight hold he has on Obi-Wan, he would’ve pinched the bridge of his nose in vexation. The emperor flexes his hands that were settled flat against Obi-Wan’s sides before gripping the smaller man as if to bruise. “Same conditions as before,” he relents, gruff. “And you will set aside whatever you’re working on when the children need you.”

At this compromise, Obi-Wan feels lighter as if it took some considerable weight off his shoulders. He wraps his arms around the younger man, squeezing him in gratitude, and buries his face in the crook of his neck, where he presses a kiss against the dip there.

“We’ll settle this,” Obi-Wan promises as Vader rests his cheek against his temple. “Then nothing will stand in the way of our reign—our family, most of all.”

* * *

A few weeks pass until the investigation team finally tracks down the perpetrators. In truth, it’s a crime syndicate.

The Rowshur Corporation.

Based in the Inner Rim, it is known as a manufacturer of chemicals and nonmetallic minerals. That is, it was depicted as such until law enforcement poked their noses into Rowshur’s operations. When the syndicate proved to be too furtive and evasive, the IOCI deployed undercover agents, and in no small part because of them, the investigation team was able to move forward in gathering substantial evidence of Rowshur’s underhanded schemes and putting names to faces.

Given the go-ahead by the empress consort himself, the undercover agents snatch up a participator in the drug operation, one they have been tailing for days. They confirm that this human male, named Gilland Kraig, is the director of distribution. Apprehending him is all they need as headway in the case. With his position and the privileges attached to it, they can interrogate him to get more insider information.

And that is a promise, a _dead-set certainty_. Every bit of information tucked away in Kraig's head will be wrung out of him.

Because the interrogator is none other than Obi-Wan himself.

Gilland Kraig never stands a chance, something he fails to realize until the end comes for him.

* * *

Gilland was arrested three rotations ago. He spent a majority of his time alone in a cell—half of it onboard a ship in the brig, the other half in the detention facility of Coruscant’s Imperial Office of Criminal Investigations. Strangely enough, except for the initial questioning done upon his arrest, he has not been probed or prodded any further than that. It puts his teeth on edge as he waits for the advent of his reprobation and punishment. He has never been much of a physical aggressor, but knowing that he is doomed makes him want to lash out like a cornered beast. The suspense is like a slow-acting but potent poison, driving him mad while he suffocates from the eerie quiet and stillness of his single-person holding cell.

The first rotation, the second, the third. Finally, officers take him out of his cell and stuff him in the back of a law enforcement speeder. Confusion grows heavy in the back of his mind when he notices how long the ride takes. Where are they taking him? Not to the court building, he thinks, or even to the IOCI, since both places are nearby the detention facility. But this is something he didn’t bother to ask earlier because he knew no one would answer him, an assumption that stems from his abysmally low expectations of those hive-mind vermin. The back of the speeder is windowless, so he can’t see his surroundings, and he’s a stranger to the layout of Coruscant’s streets and districts as well. Either way, it matters little if he guesses his destination—whatever lies in store for him can’t be good.

And he’s right to think so when the speeder stops. It is the one time he wishes he was wrong as he steps out into a massive hangar and stares up at the banner above one passageway; it is embossed with twin stars that seem to be sharing the same orbit, a curving line striking through the cores of the stars. Every bit of warmth drains out of Gilland. He recognizes that emblem—he would be a fool not to.

He’s in the Imperial Palace.

As if to emphasize that fact further, two Imperial Guards approach, easily classifiable by their forbidding red and black armors, a short cloak draped over one shoulder. They are armed as if they are going straight to war—blasters tucked in holsters and choice of a vibro-type or an electro-type weapon in hand. The Imperial Guards exchange a few words with the officers who drove him here—words that go over Gilland’s head because of the vehement buzz in his ears—then there’s a rough nudge to his back, which does very little to shake him out of his shock. He stumbles as the Imperial Guards tow him along, his feet dragging behind him. The longer he walks, the greater his apprehension.

He’ll never admit how desperate he was when he prays, _Don’t let it be him. Tell me the emperor did not summon me._ He’s heard of the sovereign’s ruthlessness and unparalleled fighting prowess, of the brutality he inflicted upon those who opposed him, of the many planets and organizations that were obliterated to dust by his command. The emperor is the incarnation of nightmares, including Gilland’s.

Initially, when his boss first proposed the Force-boosting drug, Gilland had supported it, fascinated by the potential it contained. But then imperial officers started snooping into the syndicate’s operation, which spiked the misgivings he had buried underneath his excitement for their scientists to perfect the drug. From thereon, every waking moment felt like a nightmare to him. He was down to the last shreds of his sanity because of his overwrought mind. How was he supposed to feel secure with himself when his traitorous mind kept conjuring up images of his arrest and torture? Of Emperor Vader and his elite enforcers? As time passed, the paranoia had seeped deep into his consciousness, to the point where he had to consume sleeping pills to get some rest before he keeled over. He even upgraded his security and constantly kept a weapon on his person for ease of mind.

But that had been all for naught. Those tricky undercover bastards had pulled a fast one on him. Now his fear, his nightmare, is minutes away from coming true, getting nearer and nearer as the guards escort him to the inner depths of the palace, his pitiful, hunched form dwarfed by the massive columns and hulking statues that flank the halls.

He’s already a prisoner. All that’s left is for him to be tortured, have his limbs chopped off, his back whipped, and his sanity wrecked.

Terrified as he is by this probability, it affects his reasoning. Why are the guards taking him to the imperial gardens to be tortured?

Then it occurs to him belatedly that there is one other person aside from the emperor who could summon him to the Imperial Palace.

 _The empress,_ he tells himself, numb and disoriented, blinking rapidly when the glare of the midday sun slices over his eyes. His mouth goes dry as he follows the neat stone path that cuts through the lawn to the beautiful structure where the very person he’s thinking of awaits him.

_It’s the empress._

And he is summer personified.

Looking at him up close, Gilland sees a divine creature that emerged from a fairy tale painting to stand amongst mortals. Sunlight is saturated in his hair, a scorching red that's tinged radiant gold, each strand silky to the touch. Stars make themselves at home across the ivory expanse of his smooth skin, a smattering of little freckles scattered across the elegant slope of his nose and along the backside of his supple hands. Overcast skies above crystal blue seas are condensed in his eyes, fierce and ominous as a roaring tempest, or benevolent and serene as a lulling tide.

The empress is resting in a gazebo. The silvery-white structure is sophisticated, octagonal in shape, and built on top of a raised permacrete foundation. The roof is covered with permaglass panels, the highest point capped by a cute finial. The posts are deceptively strong in their slenderness; their corner brackets a skeletal cutout of swirling, wing-like patterns. The waist-high wraparound railing bears a curious ornamental design of curling air currents and birds in flight. From inside the structure, pale red curtains of gossamer synthfiber hang from the upper beams, but they are currently bundled up against the posts to allow the afternoon light in.

Arranged in the middle of the gazebo is a gold-framed transparisteel table accompanied by four padded chairs. One chair is occupied, of course.

The lowest step of the gazebo is where the guards come to a full stop. At their arrival, the empress glances over to the opened-gate archway. When he rises from his seat, a heavy hand grips Gilland’s shoulder and presses down, reminding him to show due deference to His Imperial Majesty. Thus, Gilland bows as if in supplication, dropping to one knee on the stone pathway, practically folded in half for lowering his head as far down as it can go. The guards were already bowing, having been swifter than him, their weapons placed on the ground next to them. They hold out an arm, leveled horizontally to their chest, suspended above their non-kneeling leg; in that practiced gesture, it is an offering and a request, a question and an answer, but most of all, it is fealty. Time and time again, they did that, swearing themselves to their majesties until it was their last.

It brings a bitter taste to Gilland’s mouth as he ponders that. A scowl forms on his face as his earlier confusion fades away, his eyes narrowed and jaw locked. It is an expression that clashes with his posture. He is not like these brain-dead fools around him seeking their master’s attention while presenting their own. There is no supplication or dedication or even courtesy to give because he has none.

The emperor’s little pet must be the biggest fool of all, thinking that he, a pampered lapdog with a leash and collar, can _toy_ with Gilland. It’s an indignity far worse than all the others he’s experienced since he abandoned his birthplanet to search for a higher purpose in life. He did not go through hardships that were grueling and depraved just for him to be looked down upon by someone who could get anything he wanted without even asking.

“At ease, gentlemen,” says a smooth, lyrical voice. Sonorous but not too deep. “Please stand.”

Not even caring that he seemed impatient, Gilland immediately gets up, his knees shaking only the slightest. He dares to lift his chin, squarely looking at the monarch without shame.

Yet his knees find a more compelling reason to shake and possibly stagger when he sees the man’s expression; it catches him off guard.

Obi-Wan Kenobi-Skywalker is smiling at him warmly as though he was waiting for a friend to arrive all along. But something foreboding lies in that endearing expression, a shadowy fiend that lurks behind the halo of an angel.

“Welcome, Mr. Kraig. Would you like to join me for tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I had a gazebo. I am unashamed to admit that I wasted an hour looking at gazebo designs when researching for this fic.
> 
> About 70% of this fic was written during a rough time courtesy of the winter freeze. I live in an area that is hot and muggy, so no one was prepared for icy conditions, frozen/burst pipes, and large power outages. My neighborhood got lucky, though. Guess I used up my luck quota for the year.
> 
> Okay, moving on. For the second part, I'll post it within 2-7 days depending. I gotta work out the kinks first since it's the main part of this whole thing, and trust me, there's a lot. But yeah, soon you'll get your delicious Obi-Wan as he intimidates his guest *cough* prisoner *cough*, I promise.
> 
> Excuse me for writing mistakes. Hope you stick around for the next part!
> 
> ~ Ronri Majesty
> 
> (Don't use it much, but here's my [tumblr](https://forlullajustcoffeeplz.tumblr.com) if you wanna support me or just talk!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That riveting expression remains even when Obi-Wan focuses on enjoying his tea.
> 
> That’s right. Keep looking. Take in everything that I am.
> 
> Because this is what temptation looks like over a cup of tea in all its forms. Dream and reality, choice and consequence, pleasure and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind comments of support! Knowing that y'all like this 'verse as much as I do makes me all giddy. – ̗̀( ꈍДꈍ ) ̖́–
> 
> Now it’s time for ruthless Obi-Wan. His Majesty can sure put up a performance. *rubs hands eagerly* Let's get this show on the road.

It’s not an invite, and judging by the rigid contours of his face, the man knows it. If Obi-Wan hadn’t known that Kraig was suffering from enduring sleep-deprivation, he would’ve chalked up the prisoner’s brazen attitude and lack of manners to his nefarious background since it’s only natural for criminals to abhor law-abiding individuals. As the one who created or amended most of the laws that every being in the Empire must adhere to, Obi-Wan is no exception to Kraig’s contempt. Under normal circumstances, Kraig’s less than savory behavior would’ve earned him a bash across the face and another behind the knees, but Obi-Wan had given his guards specific instructions: they were to leave his guest alone unless told otherwise.

Gaze drifting downward, his lips purse in disapproval at the binders fettered around Kraig’s wrists. It won’t do to have his guest bound while they’re drinking tea—his movements would be cumbered—so he tells the guards to _kindly_ remove the restraints. Predictably, the guards are not keen on that idea, one of them voicing his protest, but a gentle headshake from Obi-Wan makes that guard swallow his words. Obi-Wan’s tone is airy as he admonishes the trooper, declaring that _all is well_. Besides, Obi-Wan can handle himself when up against an unarmed man. Thus, the pair of binders is unlocked, though the ankle tracker remains. When told to take positions outside of earshot, the Imperial Guards, troopers and templars alike, raise their hackles but obey their lord quicker this time. Thank the Force for that. Obi-Wan doesn’t need their hovering and staring—that would only ruin the ambiance. 

Obi-Wan is finally alone with his guest. Motioning for Kraig to take a seat, he studies the man’s appearance.

Due to the previously mentioned sleep-deprivation, Kraig resembles a drug addict going through a withdrawal. Bloodshot eyes with bags that are dark and seemingly permanent. An olive complexion a shade paler than it should be. What’s more, the opportunity to clean himself up before his transfer to the palace had been overlooked, evident by his greasy, rumpled hair and the growing stubble around his mouth. Kraig has a naturally lanky build, but outfitted in an inmate jumpsuit, it emphasizes how scrawny he is—he must’ve had very little appetite these days, strung up on nerves from being tailed by investigators and then apprehended out of the blue.

The Kraig before him now looks nothing like the man Obi-Wan had seen on file. The holograph attached to the file displays someone who exemplifies every inch of a dashing businessman—the slicked-back hair, the clean-shaven face, the dapper uniform, the enigmatic smile.

As Obi-Wan prepares their tea, he briefly wonders how long it’ll take to break this businessman.

As requested, the service droids had left a tea set for their master. Set out on the table is everything he needs—teacups, saucers, spoons, his choice of tea leaves, jars of additives, a teapot equipped with an infuser, and a candle stove. Obi-Wan loves using the candle stove to heat up the teapot. While waiting for his guest to arrive, the water had boiled, so he had blown out the candle, which is fine since the hot heating base keeps the pot from getting cold. After spooning two scoops of fragrant tea leaves into the infuser, the teapot is covered with its lid once again to let the leaves steep. To inform him when the blend is ready, he flips over a ten-minute hourglass.

Kraig was watching him the entire time, bemused by his serene aura and untroubled movements. Obi-Wan continues to busy himself in lieu of talking. To go with their refreshment is a selection of snacks: puffy pastries, crumbly cookies, pieces of fruit, and two kinds of spread. He is mindful not to get the lace and ribbons of his detachable sleeves dirty as he fixes a plate and then slides it over to Kraig, who blinks in a daze when the sunlight from above flashes off of something and veers right into his face. The culprit? Obi-Wan’s wedding ring. Kraig caught a glimpse of it up close before the empress’s hand retreated. A polished gold band with a shimmering kyber crystal inlay. Then Kraig is distracted by the plate of food, disbelief sweeping over his features when the fact that Obi-Wan is really treating him like a guest sinks in.

“Please, eat,” His Majesty gently encourages as if speaking to a young child. “You look famished. If you’re thirsty, you’ll have to wait a little longer until the tea is ready.” When given a sharp incredulous look, he adds, “None of the food is laced with poison or the sort, I assure you. I consider it abhorrent for anyone to sully food or tea in such a way. Though, given your situation, I don’t blame you for thinking so.”

To prove that he was telling the truth, Obi-Wan eats a cookie. The fact that he swallows it is indubitable, the lump of a pale throat bobbing up and down. Kraig stares at him, bug-eyed, analyzing his features for signs of discomfort or falsehood. But it’s a test in and of itself to read Obi-Wan, like trying to learn a new subject, yet there are hundreds of texts and interpretations to pore over, to decide which one is the most convincing.

Stumped, Kraig directs his glare down at his plate. 

_As I thought, hungry,_ Obi-Wan confirms to himself when the prisoner finally shoves the delicate little snacks into his mouth, devouring everything in a blink of an eye.

Pleased, the empress offers the other man more treats to consume, nudging over platters and plating more helpings from the tiered stand.

Ten minutes have passed, as indicated by the hourglass, its upper half empty of sand granules. Obi-Wan detaches the infuser from the teapot and then gracefully pours the tea into the cups, not spilling a single drop. The hue of the reddish-brown liquid is captivating in its vivid depths as it fills the white interior of the porcelain cup.

Again, it is another offering that Obi-Wan presents to Kraig across the table. The younger man is more cautious of the tea than he is of the snacks.

“Go on, drink,” prompts the empress.

But Kraig doesn’t budge at that cue, eyeing the drink dubiously. He finds the color rather frightening, not exquisite.

Obi-Wan lets out a quiet sigh, disappointed that he has to reassure his guest once more. Picking up Kraig’s tea, he raises it to his lips, blows at the steam curling from the top, and then gingerly takes a sip. A rich, spicy flavor that carries a hint of bitterness spreads over his taste buds. Afterward, the tea’s astringency leaves a dry sensation in his mouth, but it is not too unpleasant. He gives Kraig a mildly peeved look when he returns the cup, scooting it closer than before to the younger man. As he does so, he bends forward far enough that the stringy chains from the accessory looped around his lean shoulders dangle off his body.

“It would be a shame if you didn’t finish it,” Obi-Wan says, a touch rueful as he settles back into his chair, the long, split pieces of his robe’s skirt sliding over his legs and flowing off the chair in a luxurious wave. “It’s an excellent Gatalentan blend that pairs well with honey if I do say so myself. And it’s very expensive, at that. I hope it’s to your liking, whether you are a tea enthusiast or not.”

Brows knitted together, Kraig stares at the hot beverage, his eyes drawn to the spot where Obi-Wan’s lips had been, the faintest smear of liquid smudging the rim.

It is the moment when Obi-Wan raises his cup to inhale the sharp, heavy aroma of the brew that Kraig crumbles to the temptation to taste it. _Just one temptation out of many,_ the sovereign murmurs to himself in the sanctity of his mind. 

With a dab of honey stirred into the concoction, the prisoner finally takes a swig, and unable to help it, he glances up to gauge Obi-Wan’s expression.

The dryness of his tongue has nothing to do with the tea.

Every thought grinds to a halt with the way Obi-Wan stares at the younger man. An intimate gaze like that is something one would reserve for a lover in its smitten contentment. Dark coppery lashes are lowered halfway, sweeping against the tops of ivory cheeks whenever they drift down farther; it hides the bright gleam of kaleidoscopic eyes, the brilliance second to none if not for the sun’s rays that shine through the immaculate permaglass panels of the gazebo’s roof, bathing their surroundings in warmth and gold. A secretive, indulgent smile plays on tea-stained lips that are redder than rubies.

That riveting expression remains even when Obi-Wan focuses on enjoying his tea.

_That’s right. Keep looking. Take in everything that I am._

Because this is what temptation looks like over a cup of tea in all its forms. Dream and reality, choice and consequence, pleasure and pain.

More and more does Kraig’s control slip as he practically gawks now, ravenous as his eyes skim over Obi-Wan’s figure. His attention gets stolen first by the empress’s crown, a sleek and slender circlet of intertwined bands, the details of the filigree small and precise, tiny gemstones embedded along the curvature. When Obi-Wan turns his head, it exposes his earring, which is cuffed along the backside of his ear, branches of leaves hugging the lower side of his temple and peeking out from below the earlobe. Going down, a delicate mesh of thin chains and glassy beads adorns the older man from shoulder to shoulder, lapping around the base of his pale throat and resting against the arches of his collarbones.

It isn’t just the jewelry that blinds Kraig.

Obi-Wan is wearing one of his fancier outfits, one with fewer layers to suit the warm weather. And it just so happens that fewer layers prove to be as twice as distracting. His black undertunic has a low, straight neckline, and the navy outer robe he wears over it hardly does anything to cover him up except for his lower torso. The robe is long, sleeveless, and form-fitting, silvery accents threaded across the front and back, the borders a lighter shade of navy. The patterned obi and green sash that fastens that garment together emphasizes the slenderness of his figure. His legs are sheathed in plain black pants, partially hidden underneath the sprawling lower half of the robe.

Amidst all that extravagance worth more than every bit of credits one could steal or earn in a lifetime is one oddity.

The durasteel bracelet.

Obi-Wan did a poor job of camouflaging it, the accouterment nestled up against one of the ornate sleeves covering his wrists up to his elbows. The bracelet doesn’t belong to the empress’s exquisite ensemble at all—that much is glaringly patent—yet Obi-Wan cannot cast it aside because it’s a requirement. Essential due to its functionality but bereft of sentimental value. The significance between the bracelet compared to that of the wedding ring is a contradictory one. Because the former is a Force-suppressor while the latter is not.

He doesn’t mean to, but when that thought crosses his mind, Kraig twitches, and Obi-Wan knows why.

The details of His Majesty’s defenselessness—it stirs up the upheaval in Kraig’s mind, each one overlapping the other like a flurry of leaves raining down all at once. The suppression bracelet, the dismissed guards, the lack of weapons. The only thing standing between them is a table. If Kraig had the spine of a killer, he would swipe a fork and bury it in the monarch’s jugular, the spot that screamed _vulnerable_ as it did _bait_.

But Kraig isn’t a killer. For all that he seethes and snarls, his complexion gets paler and paler at the thought of gore, something he can’t stomach, especially if done by his hand. It is a trait of his that does not escape Obi-Wan’s notice.

 _This man harbors many temptations._ Obi-Wan calmly finishes his cup of tea as he wraps up his assessment of his target. The thing is, he’s already learned everything he can about this Gilland Kraig. Ever the diligent one, he had thoroughly researched the criminal in preparation for their meeting. The investigators had put together a very detailed profile about Kraig, and Obi-Wan had digested every bit of information in that dossier. 

And using that information, he had devised a method on how to discipline Kraig. After all, what better way to punish the tempted than to let them have a taste of their own temptations? And _only_ a taste.

_He dreams of much, covets much. And will do anything within his power to get it. The problem is, he is a man full of weaknesses._

A sardonic smile hovers on the corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth. He hides it behind the hand he rests against his cheek, feigning absent contemplation. 

_He reminds me of my dear one._

_...Except he lacks all the strength Vader has at the tip of his finger._

Poor Gilland Kraig. His life will only go downhill from here. 

It is time to set everything in motion. 

A whisper breaks the lull, barely louder than the gentle billowing of the gossamer curtains that sway in the breeze.

“It must have been hard to resist—all those temptations.”

But with the short span of space that is the table separating them, the whisper reaches its recipient. Kraig’s reaction is slow as if his brain can’t quite process the words and the meaning behind them. The spot above his right eyes tics when comprehension finally dawns.

Kraig doesn’t seem ready to speak yet, so Obi-Wan fills the air between them with the low and dreamy cadence of his voice. “Even then, the more you search and collect, the more temptations there will be.” Teacup placed down on its saucer, His Majesty runs a fingertip along its rim, slowly tracing the flowery motif there. “We may not share the same temptations…but I _have_ fallen for them. In this manner, we are alike as victims to our desires.”

“As if I can believe that coming from you,” Kraig snaps, speaking up for the first time. His voice is hoarse, but not because of a parched throat. “Someone like you—of your stature and upbringing—how could you ever—” A grunt of frustration leaves him, the ability to think and articulate impaired by his weakened mental health. “What I’ve been through, you’ll never understand it. You can study me all you want, but you—you’re just playing around. Pretending to be a detective, a hero, when in truth you’re just full of complete nonsense, someone no better than a deadbeat.” Bloodshot eyes flash wildly when he spits out, acerbic, “And you’ll get _nothing_ from me, Your Majesty. So, yes, go ahead and enjoy your tea. But someday soon, your sheltered little life will go down in flames.”

Deaf to the rude words thrown his way, Obi-Wan tilts his head to the side as he appraises the incensed criminal, the longer strands of his fiery hair brushing against the upper fringe of his crown. “What you’ve been through, huh? But that’s the thing, Mr. Kraig—I’ve learned _plenty_ about you. How unfortunate that one of us had to underestimate the other.”

The older man leans back in his seat, elbows perched on the armrests as he threads his hands together, suspended over his lap. Calmly and methodically, he goes about revealing his knowledge—though not everything, just the details from the other man’s file.

“Gilland Kraig, age thirty-one in standard years, born on the insipid Mid Rim planet of Jiaan. Once you were old enough, you left your homeplanet and its monotonous way of life to planet-hop for many years using, for the most part, unauthorized means. During those years, you worked odd jobs that barely kept you fed and clothed while steering clear of local jailhouses for all of those petty crimes you committed. Your records indicate that you have a poor aptitude for any combative and technical work, but you have a flair for service-based professions. Moreover, you never pursued a path of higher education, yet you were able to cultivate your knowledge in business, economics, and logistics. That being so, you began to present yourself as an insightful, literate man so that you could seek employment that provided higher pay. Later down the line, you migrated to the Inner Rim because of the Rowshur Corporation, which hired you for your skills. The business itself had been recently established and was still digging a place for itself amongst other competitors; it was an environment well-suited for the likes of you, who would help expand the business to build a reputation for yourself and also fill up your pockets. Soon enough, you received several promotions until you wound up with the position you have now: Rowshur Corp’s director of distribution.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head, a regretful pinch to the corner of his mouth. “Though with your arrest, it’s something you won’t be returning to, I’m afraid. Anyway, did I miss anything important? I’m sure I covered most of it.”

The disinterested air to his lengthy exposition has Kraig fuming. His nostrils flared, the criminal glares at His Majesty and rasps with venom in his tone, “Like I said—nonsense. Does any of that matter right now?”

That glare did not offend Obi-Wan, who saw it as neither a threat nor an insult but rather a natural response of resentment. His hands come loose from each other as he reclines into a more comfortable posture and then lifts a shoulder in a lofty shrug, the chains of his elaborate necklace sliding to expose the freckles that dot the skin of the joint. He concedes, “Depends how you look at it. And trust me, it _can_ matter in all the right ways. For one of us, at least.” A twinkle in seafoam blue-green eyes.

Kraig groans, fed up with the empress’s nonchalance and ambiguity. “My gods, get to the point already! What, you like burning daylight?” _Wham!_ He slams his fist down on the table, rattling the ceramics and cutlery; the transparisteel doesn’t crack under the blow. “Ha! Dismissing your guards, feeding me cookies, batting your lashes at me—did you really think you could tide me over by playing nice and coy? I know what your aim is—what you want from me—but I won’t make it easy for you, _O Venerable One_.” A sneer punctuates that nasty tone. “It’s too bad, isn’t it? For one of us, at least.”

Despite how his earlier words are fired back at him derisively, no irritation or displeasure flickers across Obi-Wan’s face. In fact, his expression was inscrutable during Kraig’s tirade. It only bleeds into something else once it’s his turn to speak.

“You want me to get down to business, hm? Well, if that is what you truly wish for, then I will oblige,” Obi-Wan replies, his tone even and bare of mirth. Sharper than ever is his gaze, ready to slash and pierce. “The last request I will ever grant you as your host. And bear this in mind as well: I hold no promises that you’ll remain the same man you once were before meeting me.” When he smiles, it’s sweet and saint-like, but paired with that smile is the aura that belongs to a messenger of Death, cold and hollow.

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

Kraig never sees it coming, the breach to his defenses. Because there isn’t anything to _see_.

Reaching in and through the Force, Obi-Wan penetrates the outer layer of Kraig’s feeble mind and weaves in a single command: _Confess_.

* * *

The formless trespasser that raids the unprotected enclosure of his psyche possesses the righteous cruelty of a god who summons a flood to wash away the sinners while the virtuous cling to their rafts.

It is a chilly, oppressive presence, unsympathetic in its perusal and touch like a ghost that wanders amongst the living.

It is haunting Gilland, trapping him in the terrors that spring free from the darkest pit of his consciousness. Shadows come to life, extinguishing every little trace of light that clings to the shapeless space where his inner self resides to drown him in waves of darkness.

Then as abruptly as he was attacked, all movements cease to be. The pressure crushing him underfoot eases up, allowing him to at least suck in wheezing breaths. It is as if a blanket has enveloped him, acting as a thin barrier between him and the dangerous shadows.

That intruder is hovering near him. Observing him. Judging him. Everything hidden within the depths of his memories and emotions is excavated at its leisure, scouring through layers of soil and rock to unearth all the pieces of a deeply buried fossil.

And Gilland is helpless to stop the exploration of his mind.

* * *

The truth is, Obi-Wan has been privy to Kraig’s emotional state the entire time.

Disdain for his authority. Perplexity for his hospitality. Enthrallment for his allure. Greed for his wealth. Agitation for his constraints. Each emotion had been out in the open, where Obi-Wan could grasp it and turn it over musingly between his fingers.

A table separates them, but it is not long enough to keep the prisoner out of Obi-Wan’s reach. The Force-suppression bracelet is a disadvantage, yes, since it regulates Obi-Wan’s Force energy and therefore hinders his fine-tuned control, but the fact that it allows its wearer limited range in accessing the Force is an advantage, only because it is a secret known to a select few. However, it’s not as if he can ignore the undesirable side of things. In particular, the general public and their slurs. There are many unkind opinions about him and his standing as the second most powerful being in the Empire. And it doesn’t help that Obi-Wan rarely makes public appearances in person since his marriage and coronation.

 _Lapdog,_ they whisper sneeringly, desultorily. _Plaything. Trophy. Bedwarmer. Child-bearer._

_Weak. Useless. Pathetic._

_Why do we have to serve him?_

Of course, many are wise enough to not insult him while in his presence. Let alone in front of his husband or those of his personal retinue. As for those who weren’t…they didn’t last that long.

The intervention of his protectors notwithstanding, Obi-Wan has proven his critics wrong on many occasions. And he still is, each and every day. It is a challenge he has willingly accepted.

Put simply, Kraig is another critic Obi-Wan has to knock down a peg or two. But unlike the ones from before, Obi-Wan will _ruin_ this man for being more than just a critic. Hence, his elaborate setup and performance. However, the show isn’t over just yet. The climax has passed, yes, but the finale is next. And by the end of it, Obi-Wan will have his reward.

The prisoner is mentally ensnared in the empress’s clutches, unknowingly converted into a sleeptalker against his will, his eyes glazed over and the muscles in his face slack. Despite what his demeanor says otherwise, he responds to Obi-Wan’s mental probing, mouth moving incessantly to vocalize the answers the older man wants.

Using the holorecorder he had stashed away in a woven box left on one of the spare chairs, the auburn-haired man has everything recorded. The names of Rowshur’s top contributors and its mastermind, the locations of the syndicate’s research and production facilities, any vital connections or arrangements, and the thing Obi-Wan is most curious about, the motive and purpose of the Force-enhancing drug.

For that last topic, Obi-Wan prefers for Kraig to be cognizant during their conversation, so he extracts his Force presence from the businessman, doing so gently as a spare afterthought.

With a loud gasp of a drowning man, Kraig suddenly shudders and then jolts into awareness, the legs of his chair scraping against the permacrete floor at the jouncing movements. Reflexively, he grips the armrests to ground himself, throwing his muzzy gaze around manically. Incoherent mutters spill out from his quivering lips. “Wh-what h-happened? Where—where was I? C-couldn’t see a-anything. Couldn’t f-focus.”

“Welcome back, Mr. Kraig,” His Majesty casually greets once the gabbing stops. He’s enjoying his second cup of tea, and half of it is already gone. The teacup is returned to its saucer so that Obi-Wan can pour another helping for the younger man, who cringes back at his sudden nearness.

Paying no mind to the frightened reaction, Obi-Wan sets the teapot down and makes himself comfortable in his chair again.

* * *

Gilland doesn’t know what to make of that imaginary attack. His body feels the same as it before. Intact as if unaffected by the terror he had been subjected to. It is a sensation that is completely at odds with the havoc that ran amok inside his head.

Is he still sane? He can’t trust his senses, his surroundings. Didn’t he scream earlier? But the tranquil surroundings show no indication of his anguish as if his pained voice did not sway the flowers, darken the light, or crack the porcelain. No one had come running to inspect a disturbance. The ambiance here seems eerie and wrong in its peacefulness.

Worst of all is the man who sits across from him, peering at him over a cup of tea. His Majesty who is the embodiment of Gilland’s deepest desires, temptations that gave him focus and drive in life.

Now Gilland can’t stand to look at him. Beauty burns his eyes, splendor constricts his throat, excellence ruptures his lungs, yet, blessedly so, there is nothing that crushes his heart.

Not for long, though.

“I had asked myself: What’s their inspiration? This drug of theirs—they see something in it that they saw elsewhere, something so badly enticing that they went out of their way to replicate it to have it for themselves. Then it occurred to me there was a perfect example—a demonstrator, so to say—of that particular something: my husband. In other words, a powerful being who can dominate an entire galaxy. He knows how to carry himself as a living icon of fear and death, doesn’t he? Wherever he goes, he commands the masses. Loyalty and obedience are bestowed to him almost unfailingly. Him, the emperor to the greatest empire to ever exist. Him, who is worshipped as a god rather than a ruler on some planets. And all of this is because he’s the strongest Force-user in galactic history, surpassing even the untold strength and talent of ancient Jedi and Sith. It must’ve been quite provoking to have witnessed, to see him as a conqueror with no other equal. It appealed to your better natures, didn’t it?”

For that last line, the empress’s voice hardens, a wordless command of _answer me_.

And Kraig does. “Yes,” he whispers, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. Withdrawn and scratchy. “Something like that, yes. My boss and the head scientist—they wanted to emulate Lord Vader’s capabilities. Thought that if someone like His Majesty could singlehandedly overthrow worlds and take whatever he wants for himself, then why not others. Why not more.”

“As soldiers for an army,” agrees the empress. “Seeing the lethality of the drug, I’m sure none of you bigwigs would’ve risked your own lives to use it, right?”

“Despite how long they’ve been experimenting with the drug, reducing its lethal effects has been the biggest obstacle for the scientists,” Gilland says in a ragged breath as bile swells up in the back of his esophagus. He remembers watching some of those test trials, and each time made him queasy. The subjects would scream and thrash wretchedly while their lifeforce was emptied out of them, a grotesque transition that left behind only shriveled up carcasses with hemorrhaged eyes bulging out of sockets and hardened flesh clinging to shattered bones.

A shadow of pain falls over the empress’s features when he asks, “And what of the subjects, all those people and creatures your syndicate captured? How were you able to figure out which ones were Force-sensitive or not?”

Gilland feels sick with the waves that churn in his stomach, but with His Majesty’s next question, it gets five times worse, like poison being added to the mix.

Because he knows it’s the most unforgivable crime his corporation has committed—kidnapping random people and murdering them in such an agonizing way. Developing an illegal drug is one thing; sacrificing hordes of innocents is another.

Whimpers punctuate his words when he chokes out, “I-I don’t know wh-what to say to the first part, other than that—that there are too many subjects to account for. Th-the second part, the boss—he has an associate, someone above my rank but works behind the scenes, who’s a Force-user.” He shrills when steely blue eyes sharpen dangerously, “But no one overly skilled, I swear! Not a real threat! This associate has no past affiliation with the—the Jedi. That’s w-what I heard, at least. He’s just someone who—who goes around to track down…prospective test subjects with his subordinates. I-I think those guys are—are Force-sensitive as well.”

“A group of novice Force-users…” Empress Obi-Wan leans forward involuntarily as he mulls over this piece of news, tension gripping his posture. “Yes, I see. That makes much more sense… It would be easy for them to scout others who are bright in the Force…”

The older man reaches out to stop and turn off the holorecorder—which Gilland failed to notice earlier—before propping an elbow up to rest his chin on his hand. Gilland swallows the lump clogging his throat when a dark, pensive stare is leveled his way.

“I have no doubt that Lord Vader will be the one to teach those…degenerates a lesson. Until then, atonement will come from you. And it will be a lesson taught by me.”

* * *

“M-My Lord?”

 _Have I not learned my lesson already?_ Obi-Wan could hear that unsaid question echoing from Kraig, who assumed he already got what was coming for him. He isn’t entirely wrong, what with his arrest, his imminent trial, and his subsequent sentence on top of being provoked and deprecated and manipulated when under interrogation. But the part he’s mistaken about? Believing that this is the end of their meeting. Of Obi-Wan’s punishment.

No, the real punishment, the _finale_ , starts now.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong about all of this, Mr. Kraig?” The auburn-haired man motions at the holorecorder—or, more specifically, the information it now contains—with a sweep of his fingers. 

The prisoner feels a fresh influx of panic that accelerates his pulse and makes his hands clammy. He is unsure how he should answer the sovereign but stammers out something anyway, whatever comes to mind first. “B-because we—we’ve done reprehensible things? Committed an a-atrocity so grievous we—we cannot be f-forgiven.”

Obi-Wan nods once, slowly. “Yes. But do you know what it _means_? To _me_?”

“I…I beg your pardon, Y-Your Majesty.” Kraig’s voice is trembling as much as his body is. “Your question—I don’t know—what you’re asking for specifically.”

The wrong answer, indeed. A heavy huff of disappointment leaves Obi-Wan. When he speaks, it’s the closest he has ever gotten to snapping at the criminal. “You need some direction? Fine, then. Consider this: I worked so hard to establish laws for the betterment of the Empire, laws that maintain order and equality, laws that protect and preserve. So, how do you think I _felt_ when I learned that a rotten group of beings decided to go against all those laws?”

Agitation affects the smooth inflection of his voice. The unruffled silkiness of it has eroded into something tight and brusque. Despite remaining in his chair and not leaning forward at all, Obi-Wan can project his presence as if he was looming over the prisoner threateningly, a vengeful angel facing down a heinous demon that’s been cornered after many moons' worth of a pursuit.

Once he realizes the heart of the matter, Kraig is petrified with absolute shame and horror. It robs him of speech, so the empress continues with his diatribe.

“Yes, now you see it, don’t you? At that time, I thought to myself: _How dare they defy me_?”

He whispers those last few words, caressing them, savoring them. But in his gentleness is severity, a blade drawn and poised to strike out of fury.

“You know I don’t mean harm, that I only wish for the best, yet why do you hurt me? Why was everything I’ve done for your sake not good enough for you? It astounds me how I cannot understand your reasoning for it all, how you would think any of _that_ would be a better alternative. That you would choose to ruin your life and that of others for _wasteful_ things—vaults overflowing with riches, beautiful companions hanging off your arm, displays of dominance to inflate your ego, harmful substances to gratify your senses. But these temptations only brought you to one thing…your end.”

His Majesty shakes his head, outrage and woe twisting his beautiful features. “Look at where you are and whose presence you are in. Think of the consequences. My emperor, _your_ emperor, will not let you die quietly. Tell me, do you think you’ll be able to die of madness in the mind before your bodily vessel gives up? It would be a sweet blessing if you could. But the torture specialists of the Shadow Unit won’t let you go so easily. Oh, not at all. Do you know what they do? What mastery they have over their art? Victims are trapped inside their minds with their worst fears while their flesh is mutilated beyond recognition.”

Kraig chokes out a garbled sound, his complexion turning a greenish-gray, but Obi-Wan is unsympathetic as he stares down at the broken man, whose body looks as if it had caved in on itself, shoulders drawn inward, torso hunched over, and head ducked over the edge of the table.

The empress asks in a clear, measured voice, “So, I ask you again, Mr. Gilland Kraig: _What’s wrong_?”

Despite how it’s a rhetorical question aimed at the criminal’s wrongdoings, a reply is finally articulated in a guttural gasp.

“M-me. Ev-ev-everything I’ve d-done f-f-for my—myself.”

This admission pleases the older man a little, but his indifferent demeanor remains unchanged in its resolve for retribution. “That’s right. Because you are my subject, and I am your empress. Everything about you should be done _in service to me_. It was a path you were to never stray from. Your subservience, your abidance, your allegiance—how much do you owe me now that you didn’t before? You knew the consequences, yet you betrayed me anyway.” Ruminating on something, his lashes flutter, delicate as the wingbeats of a butterfly. “Oh, how that must _feel_. To face the consequences of your failure after all this time. The price you pay will be to waste away until you are nothing more than a pathetic shell of your former self. With every breath we take, we ease closer and closer to death—that much is true about life. But for you, you will rot before your time is up, though that matters little in the eyes of death.”

That was the final nail in the coffin. Kraig lurches out of his chair and onto the ground, scrambling to flatten himself over his folded knees in a severe show of obeisance. _Groveling_ —that’s what he’s doing, yet it’s far too late for him. “I beg of you!” he cries. “Please give me a second chance, Your Majesty! I swear to never disobey you again! My will is yours! My mind, my heart—everything! My Lord, please have mercy!”

The prisoner can bawl and snivel and plead all he wants. Presenting himself as a pitiful, redeemed soul will not sway Obi-Wan’s conviction, for his verdict will stand. Because this is what happens when his laws are violated—he becomes more than a champion of equality and justice, the protector of innocents, the patron of enlightenment. As judge, imprisoner, and executioner, he will do what it takes to eliminate the transgressors. Do what he must for the greater good. And in consequence, for his family.

“My mercy was always there. But because you scorned it, I scorn you.” His Majesty smiles wryly. “A fitting lesson, isn’t it? Your downfall is yet another example that shows how mercy belongs to those who deserve it.”

After summoning the guards with his comlink, Obi-Wan spares Gilland Kraig one last look, saying airily, “Farewell, Mr. Kraig. Perhaps you’ll be redeemed in the next life.”

The guards show up to restrain the criminal as he howls in livid despair. “No! NO!” Binders secured around a pair of resisting wrists, the troopers proceed to haul the thrashing man away, their combined strength thwarting Kraig’s futile attempt to dig his heels into the stone pathway. The Royal Guards that had been in Obi-Wan’s company earlier resume their original positions, standing a respectful distance away near the railings, their attention solely on their lord. “ _Nooooo_!”

With his guest finally out of his hair, Obi-Wan can return to his peace and enjoy his tea.

Not long after, the sedate clanking and whirring sounds of an approaching android fill the air, a much more pleasant contrast to the commotion before. “Master Obi-Wan?” queries the female-programmed droid when her presence isn’t acknowledged right away.

“Hmm?” The empress glances up distractedly from the shapes stretched out along the ground, produced by the sunlight shining through the gazebo’s framework, an engraving of birds and feathers and airstreams. More than once has he thought of it as ironic to see the figures of the birds flying across the length of the permacrete floor whenever he has tea break here, that a part of him argues that they look grounded there instead, caged underneath a transparent roof and from the sides by ornate walls of metalwork.

Yes, the irony has never been lost to him.

“Prince Zeon has finished with his afternoon lessons and exercises,” informs the service droid. “And, no more than twelve minutes ago, Princess Luce and Prince Luxe have awakened from their nap. They all request your presence for playtime. As for Princess Remi, she will be hungry soon. Would you rather nurse her or have her drink formula?”

Drawing his gaze away from the floor, Obi-Wan chuckles as he absently rubs his wedding ring. “Oh, dear. If the children demand that I join them for playtime, it will be difficult to entertain them while nursing Remi. So fix her a bottle of formula, please.”

“As you wish, Master Obi-Wan. I have forwarded your request to Princess Remi’s nanny droid. If you are done here, I will clear the table now.”

“Just one moment, Mita.” Obi-Wan picks up the holorecorder and holds it out toward one of his guards. “Deliver this to the Information Center. Have the recording stored and then a copy sent to the IOCI.” The guard swiftly goes to do just that as the auburn-haired man glances back at the service droid. “Alright, that should be the last of it. You can go ahead and clean now, Mita.”

When Obi-Wan rises from his seat, the droid and the Royal Guards all dip into a bow. The empress gracefully sweeps out of the opened gate, down the steps, and across the garden, his personal guards never far behind him as he heads back into the palace, the desire to see and hug his children erasing all of his earlier tension and melancholy.

_Nothing will stand in the way of our reign—our family._

What he told his husband that day, he means it. Genuinely. It is an honest pledge carved deep in the stone surface of his core. He'll do anything to protect his family. For his children, he would raze planets and build armies. For his lover, he would defy all odds and break every rule. 

This, he promises, and thus far, it is a promise he has kept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side Notes:
> 
> \- This version is way different than what I had in mind during the first outline—Obi-Wan didn’t scare the OC by infiltrating his mind. And, um, he was a lot more seductive. If that table had been any smaller, there would've been a footsie scene, I just know it. 
> 
> \- I will reveal my reasoning for choosing the children's names in another piece. Please be patient until then. (Though, I wonder, do you guys like the ones I picked out so far?)
> 
> Author's Corner:
> 
> Welp. Poor dude. If this was the Obi-Wan from 10 years ago, he would’ve been given a stern talking to and maybe a slap on the wrist. Too bad he’s talking to the Obi-Wan who’s currently married to Vader and is one protective mama bear.
> 
> In the first piece, I word-vomited about a bathing room. In this piece, I word-vomited about a gazebo, tea, jewelry, clothes, and most importantly, Obi-Wan. XD 
> 
> Obi-Wan deserves praise and attention. This is how I give it to him. 
> 
> So, technically, this is the official ending I had outlined for this fic, but then a part of me was like, "Hold up. We need more Vaderwan and some fluff and smut!" (Sensual fluff? Rofl.) And I, a mere slave to my muse, decided to oblige. 
> 
> The problem is, I've written and planned so much within the past 3 months that I burnt myself out. Therefore, I ask for your understanding while I take a short break to refresh my fried brain. Then, afterwards, I hope to be back with that serving of fluffy smut.
> 
> Sorry for any writing mistakes, and thanks for reading!
> 
> ~ Ronri Majesty
> 
> (Don't use it much, but here's my [tumblr](https://forlullajustcoffeeplz.tumblr.com) if you wanna support me or just talk!)


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